Jolly good time
Under the railroad tracks
Never know what you might find
Kalidescope of possibilities
You accumulate a pile of goodies
Alchemists would be jealous
Relishing my variety of dubious choices
Delightful place to find treasure, car parts, used gum
On this gangrenous planet, where the sky bears the scars of time gone by,
we should refrain from weaving plans from threads of illusions and hopes,
yet we continue to craft them with an optimism that pulses deep within our veins,
like a reflex of the dying seeking light in the final darkness of the day.
We cling to dreams like pale stars barely shining,
in a universe that hides its future under a veil of uncertainty and silence,
but even in the face of a world decomposing under the weight of its own mistakes,
we dare to hope, to plan, to weave stories from the ashes of the present.
Perhaps this optimism is merely a flickering flame in the cold wind of reality,
but within it, we find the strength to dream, to rise from the ruins of a shattered past,
and in every plan we make, in every hope we keep alive,
we discover fragments of light, echoes of a possibility for rebirth.
And so, on this ailing planet, where time counts its heartbeats,
we build our future from fragments of optimism, like alchemists of the dream,
seeking magic amidst despair and sunrises in the midst of perpetual night,
for even on the edge of the abyss, we remain seekers of miracles and lights.
I write to you from inside an empty skull
because Wednesday can be hollow and bony
as we all may well know.
I am a man of great hope,
not unlike those earlier alchemists
with their gathered elements about them,
their cauldrons and scales,
their mystic science brewing
into crescendos of disappointment,
yet always working toward
a transmutation to the gold
of one more legendary day.
I must go now for the sun is setting
and in this hollow bone
a bird in a golden tree sings of
a sun that rises only to set.
It sings also of a mythical land,
where seven lesser deities'
number the hours on a faceless dial,
an infernal device
that measures the days
between the beginning and the end,
as if Thursday were but a dream
yet to be begun or imagined.
For all those women who are alchemists. We take the Darkness and transmute it to the Light.
Women who are alchemists
By Michelle Morris
07/12/2024
May you be blessed to meet them
Those women who are alchemists
They take the Darkness from the planet
And transmute it to Light and Blessings
They've lived in the Dark Abyss and Hell
They've faced their own demons over and over again
They've battled demons for the multitudes
And risen like the phoenix from the ashes
They're Empaths and Earth Angels
They're Healers and Lightworkers
They help by shining their Lights brightly
Even when they're tired and weary
May you be Grateful to them
Their Love and Light and Grace
For the Hope and Faith they inspire
To the entire Human Race
© Michelle Morris, 2024
A Bushel Of Sage, I'm Stardust
Ascending through meditation, Soul Drifting Wanderlust
Seven Doors To Heaven
VICTORIOUS! I Raise the Alchemists Scepter,
Climbing Stairways above the Mists Of Life
Rising Aflame, Blazing Lights like Nazarites
Aura Sheens Of Infinity the Spirit Gleams Forever
Soaring Above Lies & Oppressors,
Ever-Flowing like the Grace of an Epic Zen Master
My Hearts Deep and Rich like Jasper,
Flying Ever-Higher, Ever-Faster
I'm a Full Throttle Cosmo Threshold Smasher,
Sailing Seas Of Eternity, I Drift the Inner Galactics
There, The Promise Lands we Inhabit
Beyond the Chords Of Time, Enshrined, The Elixir Of Life
BEHOLD, The Mystical, BEHOLD, The Divine
Intolerance weaves threads of hatred
in the fabric of our scary times,
innocent blood is shed in madness,
fanaticism spreads like wild fire,
life is splintered by lancet of chaos
into disposable debris uncared,
in the psychic grip of insolent stress
the fostered relationships crash.
Before the world order collapses
I ardently wish the times change,
war-tanks become pianos,
guns form harmonic flutes,
deadly arsenals turn harps,
mercenaries become violins,
and they all perform the symphony
of peace and universal brotherhood.
Before the hourglass breaks,
let the essence of times change,
thorns of contempt turn into flowers,
cactus of hatred into branch of olive,
crooked minds morph into alchemists,
and make the golden strands
that will create the garlands,
intertwining all of us with love.
_________________
June 8, 2022
Contest : If Only My Wish Would Come Ture
Sponsored by : Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Dear Thursday
though you are a day yet hours away,
yet let me love you.
I write to you from inside a skull
because Wednesday can be hollow and bony
as you well know.
Though you are as yet untried
I am this man of great faith,
not unlike those earlier alchemists
with their gathered elements about them,
their cauldrons and scales,
their mystic science brewing
into crescendos of disappointment, yet
always working towards one more day,
a transmutation to gold.
My heart is in an attic under a dome today
and I write this way so you will know
that love is not a stranger to me,
even though I work alone in the dark bone,
I look toward you with great love.
Dear Thursday, a bright window has appeared,
has materialized, formed I think
from these laden words.
It is full of light and delight dear Thursday,
this Wednesday has bloomed
as a lotus will from the dark mud, and while
I shall always be faithful to you
my dearest Thursday
I must go now for the sun is rising,
a bird in a golden tree sings for me this day,
dear Thursday,
and not you.
I will wear a mask
but not a blindfold
listen as the lies be told
while others have a line to hold
I will not succumb
to mindless mutterings
of inane conspiracies
always pointing .....elsewhere
I will stand
because I stood
before hate's onslaught
bore its tainted touch
I did not yield then
nor will I now
to appease the soft skinned
bullies of academia's alchemists
I am of simple birth
a wearied warrior
scarred by schoolyard tongues
molded by fear's response
I will not tolerate
the crushing of the dreams
of those not yet hardened
and shaped on life's anvil
John G. Lawless
8/26/2020
GIT THEE BEHIND ME SATAN-
All my soul within me pitching
Git thee behind me Satan
All my soul within me ditching
Only this and a shepherdess
Much I not marveled the mystic exorcist
Git thee behind me Satan
My mind always strays to enchanters
Much I not marveled this splendid priestess
I discovered the alchemists
And its eyes have all the witching
Git thee behind me Satan
The whipsaw witchery whipsawing
And so I screamed, 'Is that a theologian?'
Enchantress - enchantress - enchantress!
Suddenly, I heard some magicking
God forbid
The occult smiled
God and I proclaim...Git thee behind me Satan
Demons cries and flees
Gods children and angels singing
Git thee behind me Satan
8/9/20
written word by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
Intolerance weaves hatred in the fabric of our times,
innocent blood is shed in madness, civilizations clash,
tender hearts splinter into disposable debris uncared,
in the psychic grip of insolent stress relationships crash.
Before savage tides surge, let times change the essence,
war-tanks become pianos, guns form harmonic flutes,
nuclear arsenals turn harps, soldiers become violins,
performing in symphony of peace and brotherhood.
Before the hourglass breaks, let times change the form,
contempt turns to flower, hatred to branch of olive,
minds morph into alchemists, making golden threads
that will create the garlands of love for the despised.
If not, let the stubborn times go back to the stone age,
write a new hieroglyphic story on the erased plaque.
July 9, 2020
Contest : Strand Completely New (7), Any Theme Any Form
Sponsor : Brian Strand
i can tell
that the
sounds
around
aren't
the
vibrations
of old when
alchemists
tried to turn
anything and
everything
into gold
The Tears of Gaia
Wash down over a silent place,
Washing clean our plastic,
Our Empty cans, our debris,
Tears flowing gently over,
Humanity’s darkest fruits,
A child stands with her arms outstretched,
Waiting for the winds to change,
Waiting for sun light to break through clouds,
For daylight to kiss tired sleeping skins,
For Lost Poets, artists, visionaries, story tellers,
Myth makers, alchemists to awaken from their sleep;
She waits;
She waits for Healers to arise from their shallow graves,
For dreamers to dream us a new place,
For lovers to show us how to kiss again,
For the healed,
To allow the Tears of Gaia
to flow
Freely once again.
John Roberts
Evening about you reminds me of the Sun
You are light and diaphenous warm and sultry
Like a thousand summer solstice or alchemists spells
You are as bright as Venus the morning star
I would like to bathe in your sunny afternoon's
By, Michael Lanier
Oh, Scooter, savior of
my leg joints.
The bearer of my weight.
Reducer of pain.
You carry me,
three-wheeled chariot,
as a knight on his steed.
My sword cane,
my concealed lance.
From my vehicle to a place of sustenance.
grocery store, or restaurant.
To places of examination.
Modern alchemists.
Modern soothsayers.
Analyzing the "humors,"
with scientific precision.
Oh, Scooter.
Slyly, you enslave me.
As I rise, my legs
flare with pain.
Like withdrawal from addiction,
my brain craves that
which relieves misery.
Oh, to stay on your padded seat.
My geriatric throne.
The addiction waxes stronger.
Being without you,
increases my hunger.
Finally, I cease to be mobile,
on my own.
My medical condition,
from sedentary living,
takes its toll.
And my organs silently whisper, "Nevermore."
Soon the wheels that carry me,
are in a procession to a place,
where I will need you, never again.
Like Lucifer your leaves fall.
Your petals fade.
Your roots fail
to ponder
The path of the deep.
That season is upon you
That devours the children of the earth.
There is a song
You hear when you paddle
The canoe alone at night
O traveller on the Nile!
It’s a sad song of a withering flower
You will hear waves mourn.
Even the nightingale
Joins in the woeful song.
Night has come upon beauty
And all that can be gathered
Of her story
Are dried leaves.
Glory vanishing like silhouettes.
Dropping dried leaves
Dancing the dance of falling stars
On a cold night.
The termites devour every trace
Of the flower's glory.
Like alchemists sucking
Elixir from its fibres.
The sky cries over her
With dewdrops on the spot she once stood.
Nothing is remembered
But the poet's verse
That preserved her beauty.
She is dead on the soil
But lives on
On a ridge
Of the poet's dog-eared book.
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